


The Cooking Experiment

by Enigel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: bringthehappy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Cooking was the most closely related to chemistry, he decided, and he was brilliant at chemistry.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cooking Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was: Sherlock ; cooking.

After the latest roommate had run away screaming (literally; Sherlock saw no need to embellish such a sordid tale), he found himself missing somewhat the quality of the cooked food he used to make them.

"How complicated can it be?" Sherlock asked the oven. It didn't reply, although if one was prone to anthropomorphising inanimate objects, one might have taken the gaping mouth of the oven as a sign of apprehension. Sherlock had, on occasion, been accused of treating people like inanimate objects, but never the other way around, so he ignored it.

Cooking was the most closely related to chemistry, he decided, and he was brilliant at chemistry.

Sherlock sat at the laptop and pulled up a few sites, opening a number of tabs in parallel, one for each type of meal, to maximise the efficiency of the process.

He backed out scornfully from the kind of recipes that mentioned "a cup of X" or "a spoonful of Y" - what kind of cup? He had dozens, from Berzelius beakers to Erlenmeyer flasks, from tiny coffee cups to huge beer jugs. Spoons were also aligned somewhat haphazardly in a drawer, ranging from the tiniest to the kind that could be used as a blunt weapon for when martial arts just wouldn't cut it, or when one was attacked while preparing soup. (It tended to happen more often than an average boring human would think, which was why Sherlock had given up soup-making.)

He was reasonably content with a few recipes in the end, for which all the ingredients were available and not too long after their expiration date. He memorised the quantities, composed a plan of action that minimised the total time while making maximum use of each kitchen area and of the cook's capabilities - which were excellent, since the cook was Sherlock - and set about making himself a nice lunch.

* * *

Three hours and four nicotine patches later, as the white sauce refused to coagulate and the beef stayed stringy, while the potatoes were a still-smouldering lumpy mass on the floor, Sherlock reluctantly concluded that the experiment was a failure. He glared disdainfully at the brown smudge that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a chocolate soufflé.

He abandoned the ruined clothes on the floor and got dressed to go out.

Cooking was nothing like chemistry. He hadn't thought something unpredictable could be boring, but the proof was standing right there, or rather lying spread all over the kitchen. Cooking was illogical, unpredictable _and_ boring. It was best left to the professionals, while his brilliant mind was better spent on other problems.

Sherlock furled his scarf around his neck with a flourish, took out his radio and tuned in to the police frequency.


End file.
